


so i'll fold the world

by vintaged



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Drama & Romance, Happy ending don't worry, M/M, Reincarnation, lots of kissing and gay shit, merlin and arthur find each other again and again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 07:54:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30136380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vintaged/pseuds/vintaged
Summary: This is how the story goes, how the die is cast.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 24





	so i'll fold the world

**Author's Note:**

> tw for brief: blood, sex, and implied police violence

This is how the story goes, how the die is cast:

You meet him in a trench in Alsace-Lorraine, after a night of heavy fire and a restless stand-to. By all accounts your battalion has arrived to relieve his, or what’s left of it anyways, except someone’s gone and shot him so he’s bleeding out instead of scrambling to safety. It makes cruel sense that he’s been deployed to the front-line trench, where the mud is so wet with bile and grime you almost miss his body. It’s a miracle he hasn’t drowned already. 

This is how you find him: following the tug at your ribcage, the convenient order to “find any dog tags you can,” the way your commander looks the other way when you abandon your post to search for him, because _he must be here, you can feel it in your bones_ . Like the whole world is bending for you to find him. The way the pressure in your chest doesn’t let up until you’re crawling and kicking towards the body you _just know_ is his. That slim frame bent like crumpled paper, leaning against the trench wall, front stained red and black. He smiles at you; his teeth are bloody.

“Arthur,” Merlin says brightly, “I didn’t think I’d find you here.”

You could cry, he looks so young and so old, so fucking _in love_ , and he’s got minutes of breath left if he’s lucky. He’s lost his helmet, revealing flushed, grimy cheeks and dark hair slicked with sweat. At a glance, Merlin can’t be more than twenty this time around, and his eyes are the bluest you’ve ever seen. Like the ocean and the sky and the lavender fields back home, all at once.

“You’re always so surprised,” you say gruffly, as you straddle his limp form, pull a roll of bandages out of your pocket. They’ll be useless in a moment, but you’re Arthur Pendragon, and you don’t give up just because there’s no hope. You’ve searched a _very long time_ to find Merlin after all, only for him to be halfway to hell, and he’s not going to leave you alone here if you can help it. You press your hands to his belly, where the darkest stain is, and the clean white cloth of bandages turns an ugly, mucky color. Merlin grimaces.

“I’m sorry,” he wheezes, and tugs gently at your sleeve. _Let go_ . Already his eyelids are fluttering, he’s barely lucid, and there’s _so much blood_ that even now, fingers thick in his guts, you want to scream at him for returning to you for only a moment and looking a right mess at the same time. “To be fair, you _are_ late.”

“I’m never late,” you say thickly, abandoning the gauze in favor of cupping his face in your hands, making him _look_ at you. Because you’ve never been good with words, you’re a man of action. And you will _command_ him to live. Then he’ll _know-_ that you can’t do this alone, that you don’t fucking _want to_. He’ll patch himself up immediately, right here in the dirt, and stay with you. It’s his destiny, after all. It has to be. 

“That’s a lie,” Merlin chokes out after a moment; it clearly takes all his energy, and so he does not say anything else. Just watches you watching him, that damned smile at his lips. His eyes are wet as he leans into your touch, as you rub at the grime under his cheekbones, but he does not cry. Even though he has every reason to; especially here, under a haze of smoke and torn sandbags, where men go to die. 

This is how he leaves you:

Merlin gives one shudder before his smile freezes. His head is suddenly unbearably heavy in your hands. Your whole body goes cold.

“Merlin, don’t- don’t you _dare_ say goodbye,” you hiss, as his face warps and blurs beneath you. There are bombs exploding above your head, and men are screaming and sobbing and dying, but he lays quiet in your arms. His eyes are bright as stars, focused on you because Merlin _always_ holds your gaze, the only one who isn’t cowed by your presence. Staring into your soul like it’s the only thing that matters, because to him, it is.

This is how the story goes.

**

Except.

**

The story is a circle, a wheel, spinning on and on. Never slowing.

**

Here’s the thing about loving a man that you cannot have: 

You get used to the way that he turns away from you, you count the space between you as it grows and grows. You learn to watch him in the negative. By the third year, the curve of his throat is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. The spaces between his fingers are breathtaking simply because your hands could fit _right there_ but they do not, will not. He stays at arm’s length, unless death is around the corner, and then he’s in your arms. Two sides of the same coin, a breath from each other. So it follows, two extremes.

See: the story must be told correctly, or not at all.

**

You meet him in a bar in Sweden, of all places, and he fucks you in the bathroom while swing music leeches through the vents.

“This is a terrible greeting,” you tell him, wrist deep in his trousers, his mouth at your ear. All wet breath and saxophone, four/four time.

“It’s better than goodbye,” Merlin says, and he’s right.

**

And so it goes, the wheel spins on, and you find your way to him again. There is no end, not really, only beginnings. That’s what the legends say.

**

Except.

**

_Except._

**

A memory, left behind:

Your four poster bed is in complete disarray. Merlin’s gone and dragged you out again, his elbows tucked under your arms and he’s talking but you’re not listening because what’s the point _, Gwen is gone and no one will ever love me again-_

“Don’t be stupid,” Merlin says haughtily, as he dumps you on the ground. He steps over your limp body and kicks a pillow out of the way. “Everybody loves you.”

He says _Everybody loves you_ like he says _I love you,_ half confession and half exasperation. He gathers the mess of plates from your desk; he doesn’t look at you.

“I wouldn’t expect _you_ to understand, Merlin,” you groan into the floor, because he’s the only one who does.

**

This is what it means to have a destiny. Merlin explains it to you several times, but it only begins to make sense when everything matches up just right, for the first time in eons. When you meet him Gwen has officially come out, u-hauled to Kilkenny in the space of three months, and you’re supposed to be finding a new place but you keep ending up in hotels for some reason. There’s this sense that you’re _looking_ for something, for someone, but you don’t really know it until he’s kicked you out of a Quality Inn for roughhousing, and then you’ve known it your whole life.

Luckily, when things are right you do not hesitate. Arthur Pendragon does not turn down a blessing.

He fucks you in the elevator and then the master suite, his hands everywhere and your name like a prayer on his lips. There’s something to be said for the way Merlin takes you apart and pieces you back together. He knows you want to be in charge at all times, and usually he lets you, but these are the moments where you sit back and watch the tables flip. The roles reverse, and suddenly you’re not sure who’s the king and who’s the servant, anymore.

“We’re like this,” Merlin says, after. He steeples your fingers with his, so that your hands form a crooked roof. “Two halves.”

You nod. The dawn light filters across his face in twisted ribbons, thick and jagged. The blinds are cheap and clearly broken, so it’s no surprise that a bend of plastic shoots a particularly direct beam into Merlin’s eyes, making him squint. Despite this Merlin is beautiful, because Merlin is _always_ beautiful, all thick lashes and pale skin and cheeks flushed red with exertion. He’s beyond lovely, and he’s still talking, still tapping the pads of his fingers against yours, because Merlin also _never shuts up_.

“Sometimes we don’t match exactly,” and he slides his hand up, so that your fingers are at his palm. “Close, but not perfect. But still near each other, right?”

You nod again. There’s a sudden tightness in your throat, and you’re overwhelmed with the urge to bury yourself in Merlin’s arms, command him to make you breakfast and fix the bed and never let you go. But that isn’t very kingly, so you just watch as he speaks, as his lips trip in gossamer saliva.

This is when it makes sense:

“We always come back to each other,” he whispers, as he closes his hand over yours. You twine your fingers together and kiss the torn cuticles peeking over your knuckles, as his breath ghosts over your lips. “You’re my destiny, Arthur. Always and forever.”

He’s so sure of it, how could you doubt him?

**

But.

There are times.

**

In New York, in the thick of summer, when the guilt is overwhelming. You leave him in a panic, return to Gwen begging for one more chance, and she takes you back because she _always_ takes you back. 

Years later you write him a letter full of apologies, carefully address it to the flat that he’d bought for the two of you. It is unsurprising: the letter returns unopened.

**

And here, on a train to Austria:

“No,” he hisses fiercely, when you go to kiss him. “I’m with Gwaine, and I will not hurt him.”

“That’s not fair,” you protest. Merlin _always_ chooses you, every time, without fail. You tell him as much, but he is cold against you. Somehow, that’s worse than anger. The sharpness of his glare is supposed to spur you on, make you push him to the brink -but it just makes your insides cramp like you’ve been sucker punched. The tug in your ribcage burns, and then it shorts out. You are hollow.

 _Please_ , you want to say. “Merlin, don’t,” is all that you manage.

“Not this time,” he says shortly, and turns away.

**

The thing about a circle is it is a closed loop. Infinite. There’s no way in, and there’s no way out.

**

Remember:

**

The beginning of the story, so many years ago:

In a leaking tavern they call the _Rising Sun_ , he kisses you for the first time. Tipsy with mead, the knights roaring their approval and pounding thick fists on the table. It’s supposed to be a joke, you see, when Merlin leans in, dryly pecks you on the lips. Nobody expects him to do it -and isn’t that the real trick, because Merlin has _no shame_ whatsoever, and he loves a good bet.

The crowd bursts into laughter when you reel back, yelling, and coins are handed round when you wipe your mouth. Merlin thinks it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen; swears you’re redder than your tunic. You make sure to whack him upside the head when he comes within cuffing distance, and rib him about it for at least a week.

And you never forget.

**

The die is cast. All you can do is follow it.

**

This is the coin, spinning on its head:

At a party for the Duke of Cornwall, of all places. There is a live orchestra, twenty people strong, and you know the waiter is Merlin because he hums along to the violins as he passes by; and because you’d know that tug in your chest anywhere; but mostly because he stumbles upon seeing you, spilling a cocktail of shrimp and champagne all over your shoes. He smirks when you admonish him. It’s easy to command that he stay by your side the rest of the night in payment -the moment you lock eyes you know Merlin will not leave you, though he’s supposed to be serving _everyone_. 

He calls you _sir_ as if the term is an inside joke, rolls the word around on his tongue like it’s made of sugar. Everywhere you feel his eyes on you, a shudder you can’t overcome; hot on your lips and your throat as you swallow your drink. So you do it again, and again, partly because you hate these stuffy evenings, partly because you like the way he freezes when you tilt your head back, sigh when the glass is empty. It really is too much to bear, you tell yourself. How could _anyone_ ignore a gaze like that? 

It’s only a matter of time before you hand your glass to Gwen and step out for a cigarette. No one asks questions when he follows you to the coatroom instead; no one cares.

This time it’s Merlin who has been waiting, and he has nothing left to lose. The second you’re out of earshot he shoves you backwards into the wall, soft with winter coats; fists at your lapel and kisses you almost crushingly. Desperate and hungry, until you realize you are too.

There is a wonderful, honey-thick moment where every one of your senses is overwhelmed by him. By bruising kisses, the tender curls at his ears, his hands at your breast pocket, your collar, tangled in your hair. He is everything in the world all at once and you’re gasping into his mouth, blind to the world save _Merlin Merlin Merlin Merlin-_

But then you remember. Like a knife to your gut, you know: this is beyond _wrong._ It takes every ounce of strength for you to lift your hands to his shoulders; and at the slight pressure Merlin stops immediately. He steps back and looks at you with his head cocked in the dim light of the closet, something playing at the edges of his flushed lips. Like he knows what’s coming next.

“I’m married,” you tell him breathlessly, shaking your head to ward off the hum of his presence. Merlin smiles weakly. He swallows hard before reaching out to smooth your mussed suit jacket, card your hair back into place with soft fingers.

“Of course,” he says, a sob high in his throat. “You always are, aren’t you?”

You want to cover his shaking hand with yours, pull him in, kiss the melancholy away and tuck him into one of these overpriced coats. Merlin’s like a bird in this light, twitching with anticipation and so agitated he can’t sit still, can’t look at you. You’re suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to say _fuck this_ and hold him till he’s a part of you again, say _Don’t leave me, you arse, don’t leave me again._

But you don’t, because Gwen is two rooms away and she’s saving a glass of champagne for you. The party’s in full swing, and Lancelot is there, and she’s always had a weak spot for Lancelot unless you’re around…

“Do you have to be so honorable?” Merlin says, as if you can answer him. His smile is blindingly wide now, blue eyes wet, and for a moment you wonder if he’s going to cry. Instead he clears his throat and takes another step back. He mutters something under his breath, and the serving dish whirls up from the carpet into his hands with a flicker of gold. You catch a flash of your reflection as the plate rushes by, staring disdainfully back at you. 

_Fool._

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, because you are. Merlin tucks the dish under his arm and nods, all professionalism even though his collar is still askew; and your stomach drops. It’s like looking into a condemned building. A contained disaster.

“Maybe next time,” Merlin says sadly, and then he’s gone.

**

So the story unravels, and knits itself together, a wheel/ a coin/ a constant. You and Merlin are at either end, linked by some strange magic and running full speed towards each other. Always running.

**

You bail him out after the Festival of Light. He has no idea what he’s doing, no idea of the trouble he’s going to get in one of these days. It’s a miracle that he’s made it to twenty-four, you tell him, as he comes bounding out of the cells with that damned smile on his face.

“Do you even know what time it is?” You ask him as you step out into the cold night. Merlin just laughs and bumps your shoulder with his. He’s shameless, he really is. He’s purposefully gone and shrunk his GLF shirt so that it clings to his bony frame like a second skin; his eyes are tired, but brighter than you’ve ever seen them. There’s a stain of lipstick at the corner of his mouth, or maybe it’s blood, but that’s _definitely_ glitter at the corners of his eyes. Merlin watches you watch him, winks at your exasperation.

“Time for equality, Arthur,” he says, and even though he’s smiling like a child you know Merlin is deadly serious. Your heart goes tight in your chest, the way it always does when Merlin is around. When he tells you what is right, looks you dead in the eyes and you know _,_ just _know,_ you could never turn your back on him even if you tried.

“You’re ridiculous.” You tell him, looking the other way. “You’re lucky I was around, else they’d leave you rotting in the cells with the rest of the glitter parade, and then where would I be?”

“Percival would’ve come and got me,” Merlin says stubbornly. You throw your hands up.

“If that’s the logic we’re going with, I suppose we should just let Gwaine drive next time we go out!” You snap, and busy yourself with a halfhearted search for a loose cigarette. There’s one in the pocket of your jacket, though when you pull it out the damn thing is rumpled. And you don’t have a lighter, so you’re really fucked now.

“Wait,” Merlin says, suddenly gentle. “Let me.”

You stop in the middle of the street, then, your exhales puffing soft clouds into the wet air. You get the sense that something is about to change, whether you want it to or not, and that somehow that makes this all feel so much bigger than a banner for gay rights or a smudge of glitter at Merlin’s cheekbone. You see, so clearly now: the night is damp with rain; the duct tape at his sneakers has come unstuck; his shoes yawn wide and wild, slap the pavement _one two one two_ as he steps close.

The silence roars in your ears as Merlin pauses, his eyes locked onto yours. In the moonlight he looks almost ethereal, his face all shadow and sparks, and a _tug_ echoes in your ribcage. Like there’s a rope tied to your sternum. With a whisper he touches his finger to the end of the tobacco rod. Immediately it flares red with heat, and you’re so stunned you gasp in spite of yourself. Suck the nicotine in, choke the smoke out. Some ash drips off the end of the cigarette, and it drops to the pavement in a hiss of gold.

“How did you do that?” You ask him, stunned beyond anything. You’re reminded, all at once, that Merlin really _is_ special, that he’s greater than anyone you’ve ever met, and you’ll never know anyone quite as wise and strange and endlessly beautiful as him.

“Magic,” Merlin says, and there’s that damn smile again.

  
  


**

Somewhere in Poland, your train makes a stop. It’s foggy and cold, classic December weather; you’re going home to see your father in between terms. It will be several hours before you reach your destination, but you’ve already finished your book so now there’s nothing to do but tap at the ice crystals forming on the window.

You pillow your cheek on your fist and glance outside, and there he is.

Merlin is in a long coat this time, a fedora pulled down tight over his ears. He steps briskly off the train and into the arms of a woman with dark hair and green eyes.

He kisses her like he’s shaking hands, and he does not see you.

**

To love him is a circle, because you’ve loved him forever and you’ll love him again and again and again and-

**

A memory, bright and warm:

Merlin leaning out the window, yelling at the knights. He could tip out, the man is such a fool, and he scares you half to death, and one day he’s going to topple right out the window and smash his stupid head open on the courtyard steps. This thought is deeply disturbing; before you fully realize what’s happening you’re reaching for him. You fist your hands in his tunic and pull him back with such force that the damned idiot staggers backwards into the bedpost.

“What was that about!” He demands, cheeks flushed with irritation. His lips are parted just so, nose crinkled in derision. You cannot look away, so you shove him in the opposite direction.

“You’re so atrociously clumsy, Merlin, it’s a wonder you still have both your hands. At this rate you’re going to get yourself killed,” you scoff, and turn back to your papers.

This is the first time you think about kissing him; but it is not the last.

**

It was supposed to be peaceful, so of course everything has gone to shit. Chicago is on fire, the whole sky lit up like a beacon; you can’t see the lake anymore for the tear gas, can’t hear anything save the screams of people as they scatter. Sirens are blaring, like some sort of twisted orchestra, grossly harmonizing with every frantic police order. When you trip, it’s on a sign that says END THE WAR BEFORE IT ENDS YOU, the words scrawled across a torn scrap of cardboard. It’s a terrible reminder, like a shadow, and something in you aches at the memory of a hell you cannot return to.

Merlin grabs your sleeve and drags you into an alley, shoves you unceremoniously against the wall as a group of cops rush past. His sweater is torn, glasses askew and cracked. He looks half wild in the dust, his arm thrust out before you as if his slim frame is going to _protect_ you better than your father’s money ever could. It occurs to you that every time you find each other, Merlin forgets about the hierarchy that follows you through every birth. Or maybe he just doesn’t care.

And there’s that urge, that rush, the one that’s followed you since the very first time you laid eyes on him. Swelling in your stomach and pushing up through your chest, like you’re on fire from the inside burning out. Again and again and again, because it’s _Merlin_ , it’s only ever been Merlin, and you could kick yourself for being so foolish as to ever turn away.

This is how you choose your destiny:

“You know, there’s something I didn’t tell you last time,” you manage, gulping air into your lungs. There are tears at the corners of your eyes, your throat is scorched with tear gas. It’s the absolute worst time for this kind of epiphany, but destiny has a way of making things a lot harder than they need to be. You get it now; and it’s infuriating.

“Tell me after I'm done saving your neck,” Merlin calls back over his shoulder, because he’s not listening, he _never listens_ , even when you’re about to do something entirely out of character and tell him the _fucking truth._ With a groan of frustration you pull him into your chest, press him into the brick wall. He glares at you, simultaneously exasperated and panicked and just as in love with you as the day you left him by the lakebed; and it all makes sense, so much sense your whole body shakes with it.

You cup his jaw, and you kiss him, and then you speak.

“I choose you,” you say hoarsely; your thumb at his collarbone. “I choose you now, and forever, and every time after that.” 

You’ve chosen him before, usually too gruffly or too slowly or after he’s walked away forever; but this time, at last. It feels right.

Merlin gapes at you, his mouth a small wet _o_ , the soft swell of his tongue twitching as he runs through a thousand different responses.

“Good,” he settles on. His fingers curl into your shirt, tighter and tighter till his knuckles are white. The whole world goes still, and suddenly nothing matters, nothing could ever matter except for Merlin at your side, his cheeks flushed and eyes softer than you've ever seen them-

There’s a sound just behind you, a dull thud, followed by a throbbing at the back of your head. Merlin’s gaze flicks over your shoulder, and he screams, and his eyes are flashing gold even as the ground rushes up to meet you.

Your vision explodes into stars.

**

The story comes full circle.

**

Except.

**

Here, it’s always summer. 

You’re waist deep in the lake, every time. Soaking wet, drenched in the kind of water that’s mostly silt. His fingers are in your hair, at your jaw, and maybe he’s crying, but you can’t be sure. It occurs to you that Merlin has grown soft at the edges, like all you’ll ever need to remember is his smile. A blurred dream, vibrating every time he strokes your cheekbones. He looks old, and young, and so in love, and everything finally _makes sense_.

“I told you, you can’t be rid of me,” you tell him. Merlin smiles.

“You make it sound like a threat.”

“It is,” you say with false anger, and he laughs, high and loud, like he’s never heard anything so funny in his whole life. He’s going to scare the fish away, if he keeps up like that, so you kiss him quiet, till he’s grinning against your mouth. For a moment you let the waves lap at the edges of your cloak, catch on his pant legs. Merlin wants to say something, and he will, he always does -but on his own time. Eventually he lifts his hands to your face, thumbs away the lines at the corners of your eyes. He smiles, and he’s never looked more lost.

“Don’t leave me again,” Merlin tells you, and his voice is shaking. He plants kisses along your eyelids, your nose, your mouth. “Don’t leave me.”

“ _Never_ ,” you say, and you mean it.

**

The wheel spins on.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! feel free to come say hi on [tumblr](https://vintagedowl.tumblr.com/) !


End file.
